Truth be told there’s nothing deep about slit wrists and hanging feet. The depth lies in why it happened. The depth lies in the emotional pain that no one seems to take seriously until there is a physical sign of it.

I don’t think people take into account, not how hard it is to study or to work with depression, or even to function with it. But the effort and energy required to merely exist. To wake up in the morning and say “All I have to do today is breathe and make no attempt to try and stop and if the sun goes down today and I’m still breathing, then I have succeeded”.

I keep a lot of notebooks. Throughout the years I’ve probably amassed more pieces of paper than I have conversations. Blank empty pages became easier for me to reveal myself to than the expectant faces surrounding me, so as I grew up I ended up with encyclopedias filled with my hopes, dreams and eventually sorrows.

Soft sheets of paper rather than other people my age became my friends. And to them I owe my life. Cause for some reason even if you’ve been writing for so long that your hand begins to ache and the ink in your pen runs dry, I’ve learnt that nothing makes you feel more heard than a blank sheet of paper.

I don’t really expect anything from this. I do not expect, nor do I want, comments, views or thousands of followers. My only interest is to reveal myself once more to this blank sheet of paper – as she does and always has accepted me in a way than no one else could ever compete with.